A slender figure in a long coat passed the window, the front door opened,
and a young man entered the study. He was dressed in orthodox clerical
garb, and carried a couple of books under his arm.

"I came to return these," he said, placing them beside the Rector; "and
also--can you give me twenty minutes?"

"Forty, if you want them. Sit down."

The newcomer turned out various French and German books from a
dilapidated armchair, and obeyed. He was a fresh-coloured, handsome
youth, some fifteen years younger than Meynell, the typical public-school
boy in appearance. But his expression was scarcely less harassed than the
Rector's.

"I expect you have heard from my father," he said abruptly.

"I found a letter waiting for me," said Meynell, holding up the note he
had taken from the hall-table on coming in. But he pursued the subject no
further.

The young man fidgeted a moment.

"All one can say is"--he broke out at last--"that if it had not been my
father, it would have been some one else--the Archdeacon probably. The
fight was bound to come."

"Of course it was!" The Rector sprang to his feet, and, with his hands
under his coat-tails and his back to the fire, faced his visitor. "That's